


Three Days

by Whump-with-wren (Spannah339)



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Endeavour Morse Needs a Hug, Gen, Kidnapped, Shaky Hands, Whump, Why the HECK is that not a tag??, coat blanket, kidnap, tied up, trewlove has the brain cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 20:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20972870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spannah339/pseuds/Whump-with-wren
Summary: With a case drawing out and the body count rising, Morse is beginning to feel desperate. However, he soon gets a little more involved with the case than he would like.





	Three Days

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to write any fics for Endeavour haha that worked well. Anyway, enjoy!

Morse stood in front of the victim’s board, idly rolling a pen in his hand. Three victims so far; all males between 24 and 29, all baring the same wounds (large cut over the eye, wrists rubbed raw, covered in numerous bruises), all reported as missing a few days before their bodies showed up. 

He spun the pen, mind foggy as he tried to connect the victims, tried to discover some breakthrough - _anything _that might help them find the killer before he killed again. He had gone over the case so many times he knew all the details with his eyes closed and yet they were still making no headway, almost two weeks after the first disappearance. 

“...orse. Hey, Morse!” 

He started, looking up at the voice. Thursday was beside the door, hat in hand and halfway into his coat. He blinked, surprised that it was that late already. Time was beginning to mean nothing to him, he had been at the station for nearly 30 hours straight.

“Get home and get some sleep,” Thursday said. Morse shook his head. 

“I can’t,” he said. “If he’s following the pattern we’ll have another body tonight.” 

Since the first disappearance, every three days another body had appeared, and another victim had gone missing. It had been three days since reports of Jacob McLain’s disappearance had come in. If Morse couldn’t figure out what was going on soon, another person would die. 

“Morse…” Thursday began, but Morse wasn’t listening. He was missing something, he knew it. There was something important, something dancing at the back of his mind, something that if he remembered it, he was sure everything would click into place. But he couldn’t place it - it was infuriating. 

“I’m so close,” he said desperately. “There’s something, I can’t quite remember…” He trailed off, frowning, and made his way over to his desk. Thursday watched him, finishing pulling his coat on. 

Digging through the haphazard piles on his desk (usually, it was much cleaner, but he had been preoccupied), a newspaper cutting caught his attention. He snatched it up, quickly reading the headline. That was it - that was the clue he needed, the last piece. 

“I found it!” he cried, turning back to Thursday. The DI was standing at the door, waiting for the explanation. “‘Arsonist released on good behaviour,’” he read. “I knew there was something, you remembered a George Summerfield I took in about a year back?” 

Thursday nodded slowly. 

“He’s the one that set fire to a couple of college flats, right?” 

Morse nodded, barely hearing Thursday as he continued his excited explanation. 

“I noticed he got let out about a week before all this mess.” He gestured towards the victim’s board. “Thought there was something fishy about it, but I didn’t have time to look into it. But he’s a Lonsdale student, at least he was, and he clearly has a grudge against the University. All the victims are, or were, Lonsdale students.” 

“That’s not a lot to go off,” Thursday said sceptically. Morse wasn’t discouraged. 

“No, but listen. The red chalk we found near the victims - you remember the old shed where he had a base?” Thursday nodded slowly, so Morse kept talking. “That had red chalk around it, I remember getting it _everywhere _when I got home. If I’m right, he’ll likely be holed up there.” 

“And if you’re not?” Thursday asked. Morse grimaced. 

“I’m right,” he said, but he wasn’t as confident as he sounded. Thursday nodded - if Morse had a hunch, that was enough for him. He trusted Morse’s hunches. 

“Right then, I’ll round up some lads and bring him in,” Thursday said. Morse nodded, and Thursday knew exactly what that meant, so he didn’t give the younger man a chance to say anything. “And you head home to sleep.” 

“But sir-” Morse began. He shook his head. 

“You’re practically dead on your feet. You need to sleep. If he is there, you can question him tomorrow, night in lock up’ll do him good. If you’re wrong, a sleep will help you to come at the case again fresh. Go home, Morse.” 

Thursday’s tone told him there was no arguing, so Morse reluctantly agreed. Part of him was looking forward to sleeping, he’d been going hard for days and he was exhausted. So, he bid Thursday farewell and headed home. 

_

Morse was right - of course he was. George Summerfield was indeed waiting at the shed. He gave himself up willingly as well - a little too willingly, Thursday thought. There was something altogether too smug about him, but everyone was so relieved to have made some headway in the case, no one really minded. 

Jakes picked him up the next morning. 

“Morse isn’t in yet, sir,” he said in answer to the unspoken question as Thursday got into the car. 

“Good,” Thursday said. “A sleep in and day off will do him good. Anything in?” 

Jakes nodded slowly as he started the car, clearly hesitant. Something was off. 

“Jacob McLain was found this morning,” he said after a moment. Thursday frowned, looking at him. 

“Alive?” he asked, fighting back the growing sense of unease. It grew all the more when Jakes grimly shook his head. 

“Same as all the others - head wound, wrist chaffing, covered in bruises. DeBryn says cause of death was strangulation.” 

“Just like all the others,” Thursday muttered. “What time?” 

“Time of death between midnight and 2am.” 

Thursday swore. They had brought in Summerfield at about ten. 

“You sure?” 

“It’s what DeBryn said.” 

“Can’t be Summerfield then,” Thursday muttered. That meant they were still no closer to solving the case. He cursed again, then forced himself to focus. “Anyone missing?” 

“No reports yet, but we’ve got uniform out Lonsdale area. We likely won’t know for sure until tonight. Summerfield probably does have something to do with it, sir. He’s likely got help.” 

The station was busy. They didn’t have time to wait for Morse, and Thursday was still loathe to send someone to wake him, so he and Jakes headed to the cell to interrogate Summerfield once they had a spare moment. 

He was sitting at the table, arms handcuffed in front of him and that all too familiar self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. Thursday dropped into the seat across from him, Jakes standing behind them, arms crossed. 

“You got me,” Summerfield said. “I did it.” 

For a moment, he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. But the sense of unease that had slowly been present since taking in Summerfield was growing worryingly large. 

“And what, exactly, did you do?” Jakes asked from behind him. 

“Killed them. All three of them. Micheal Walter, Roger Patterson and Clive Farlow.” 

“And Jacob McLain?” Thursday asked. Summerfield shrugged. 

“Him too.” 

“You can’t have killed McLain,” Jakes said, moving to sit. “He was killed after we brought you in. Who’s helping you?” 

“Does it really matter?” Summerfield asked. “It’s too late for them, there’s nothing you can do now.” 

“Who’s helping you?” 

“I told you. You’re too late. Especially for your boy.” He smirked, and the unease in Thursday’s stomach grew. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jakes demanded. Summerfield shrugged, spreading his manacled hands. 

“It means you’re too late,” he said. “She’s got him, and once she has someone, well,” he chuckled. “Hope you said goodbye to him.” 

Thursday stood abruptly, the unease bubbling over and turning into burning anger. He pressed his hands to the table, leaning over Summerfield. 

“If you’re meaning Morse-” he began, but Summerfield just grinned. 

“Oh, yes, that’s what his name was. Detective Constable Morse, that’s right. Deserves everything coming to him, I’d say.” 

The anger burned inside Thursday and he wanted nothing more than to slam the smug man before him into the ground. He started forward, but Jakes’ even voice stopped him. 

“Sir,” he said softly, but his voice firm. “Maybe you should sit this one out.” 

He scowled, pushing himself away from the table, anger and fear churning together in a nauseating mix. He knew something had been off about this whole mess. Shaking a finger in the direction of Summerfield he growled. 

“If anything happens to Morse, you’ll pay.” Then he turned and stalked out of the interrogation room. 

_

Morse wasn’t at home. Part of him had been expecting that, but until he had searched the whole flat he hadn’t fully realised how much he had let the boy down. Morse wasn’t here. Morse was exactly the kind of man the killer would go after - they had all been fools for not realising sooner. 

He stood in the middle of Morse’s empty flat, the fear inside him growing stronger and stronger. 

Three days. He had three days to find Morse. 

Three days or it would be too late. 

The whole station was grim. The case had already felt like one of the worse they had in years, and now that Morse was in the middle of it it felt so much more real. 

(The image of Morse’s body, broken and battered like those on the victim’s board kept crossing Thursday’s mind, and every time it did he felt sick.)

The first day, Jakes and Strange worked on getting as much information out of Summerfield as they could. Thursday, denied entry to the interrogation room, worked vainly with every clue they had, chasing down any small hint he could. 

When Jakes and Strange had made no headway with Summerfield by the evening, Trewlove insisted they let her try. She left the room about half an hour later. 

“He let slip his accomplice was a female,” she informed the waiting detectives. 

“We knew that already,” Jakes pointed out. 

“She is also rich enough to have bailed him out of prison, had had some kind of history with someone at Lonsdale, and has only lived in Oxford for a few years,” she said shortly, not deterred by Jakes’ comment. 

The room was quiet for a moment. Jakes shook his head in astonishment as the other men stared at Trewlove, impressed. Thursday nodded. 

“Right then,” he said. “That gives us enough to work on. Jakes, Trewlove, you get back in there with him, he might let someone else slip.” 

Win gave Thursday a concerned look when he returned home very late that night. He didn’t say much, simply muttered “Morse’s in trouble,” as an explanation. She nodded, but her worry was clear. Thursday told himself that he would slow down once Morse was safe. But he couldn’t afford to spare even a minute. 

The second day, feeling like he could actually do something useful, Thursday focused on narrowing down the suspects. He spent the day visiting homes, interviewing people and slowly making his list smaller and smaller. By the end of the day, they had three names. 

On the morning of the third day, Strange burst into Bright’s office while Thursday was giving up some of his valuable time reporting to him. 

“There’s been a sighting of one of the suspects,” he said rapidly. “Annie Sanders, over by Rose Hill. She was seen entering a building.” 

“Well,” Bright said, sensing that he wasn’t going to be able to stop Thursday from going even if he wanted to. “You’d best go see what all the fuss is about.” 

Thursday didn’t need prompting - he was already halfway out the door before Bright had even stopped talking. 

“And Thursday,” Bright called, and he paused. “You bring him home. The place isn’t the same without him.” 

“I will sir,” Thursday promised. 

_

Trewlove was waiting for them outside the building. She greeted them with a nod, somehow more tense than usual as she briefed them. 

“Miss Sanders is in a flat on the second floor,” she said quickly. “The neighbours have reports of strange noises occasionally coming from her flat, but they put it down to her having a boyfriend over. Mrs Heather in the flat next to her told me she’s seen a man matching Summerfield’s description visit a few times.” 

“Well done,” Thursday said. “Right, let’s go. Jakes, you stay here, make sure no one gets away.” 

They made their way upstairs, Trewlove leading the way. As they advanced on the flat, the door opened and a young woman darted out. She froze at the sight of the police, then turned and sprinted down the hall. 

“After her!” Thursday shouted, Strange and Trewlove rushing in pursuit. He forced himself to not rush off as well - the younger officers could handle it, and she wasn’t going to get far with Jakes waiting downstairs. 

He pushed open the ajar door and stepped into the flat, fear and worry curling together. The room was deathly silent. For a moment, Thursday thought he was too late. There was no sign of Morse, nothing. 

Then, a noise came from the bedroom, a soft call. Thursday didn’t hesitate, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room. 

Morse was there. 

He was slumped against the bed, hands bound together and tied above him to the bedframe. His eyes were closed, blood caking one side of his face, a split lip, a black eye. His already usually skinny form was worryingly thin, and for a moment, Thursday couldn’t feel anything but anger. What had she _done _to him? 

Then he shifted, opening his eyes and Thursday’s anger turned into concern. 

“Sir?” he croaked, his voice weak. Thursday hurried into the room, crouching beside him, working at the rope around his hands. 

“Alright, I’ve got you. You’re safe now,” he said evenly, keeping up a steady stream of nonsense as he freed Morse’s hands. The boy slumped into him once he was free, his body shaking slightly. “Easy, you’re okay.” 

For a moment, he crouched there, Morse leaning into him, one hand on the younger man’s back. Then he shifted, all but lifting Morse to his feet. He wasn’t sure Morse could even stand on his own, state he was in, so he lowered him onto the bed. 

“I thought I was going to die,” Morse whispered. 

“Hey now, you’re alright,” Thursday said, trying not to think of his own fears of the past few days. Morse looked so small, so _young_, as he sat on the bed, his cuts and bruises seeming all the worse on his gaunt face. Thursday resisted the sudden, strange urge to pull him into a hug, and instead shrugged off his coat, laying it over Morse’s shoulders. He lifted a shaking hand, pulling the thick fabric around him. 

“Alright?” Thursday asked softly, knowing that Morse was anything but. Morse nodded, not looking up, his hands wrapped around the edges of the coat. 

At a loss for what to do, Thursday couldn’t help but be relieved when Strange appeared in the doorway. An expression of relief flickered across his face as he saw Morse, then he turned to report to Thursday. 

“Trewlove brought her in, sir,” he said. “She’s downstairs now. He’s alright then?” The last was said with a slight waver in his voice, betraying his concern. Thursday nodded. 

“He’ll be fine,” he said, hoping he was right. But Morse was young, he would bounce back. He always did. “You got Miss Sanders then?” Strange nodded. “She said anything yet? Said why she would…” he trailed off, unable to speak. 

“She’s said nothing, sir. Leastways, hadn’t when I came up.” 

“It was her boyfriend.” 

They both turned to look at Morse. He was looking up, a shaky hand picking at the edge of the coat, the other hand lying limp in his lap. Thursday made a mental note to make sure the doctor looked at that. 

“Eh?” Strange asked. Morse continued, his voice a little stronger as he spoke. 

“Her boyfriend, he was a Lonsdale student. Greats man, actually - that’s something we missed about the victims, they were all Greats students. He abused her, gave her a scar across her face,” he gestured to the cut above his eye. “Locked her in the room for almost a week. She went mad because of it, intent on getting revenge on him.” 

Thursday and Strange exchanged a glance as Morse continued. 

“He killed himself recently, and robbed of her revenge, Miss Sanders decided to turn her attentions to others like him. She ran into Summerfield at some point, I - I haven’t figured out how. He told her he’d help her, so she paid for him to get out. I think at first he must have just wanted to just cause trouble for us, but when he realised I was just the man she targeted he figured he could get revenge on me directly.” 

He let out a small breath of air, pulling the coat closer around him and looking at the ground. 

“I - I should have figured it out sooner,” he muttered. “Should have -” 

“Hey now,” Thursday said, crouching in front of him and laying a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened at the touch, suddenly rigid. “Don’t you go blaming yourself, alright? Nothing you could have done, you hear me?” He gently squeezed Morse’s shoulder as the young man nodded slowly. “We got her, she’s not going to hurt anyone else.” 

Morse nodded, his breath shaky. He looked on the verge of tears and the urge to hug him returned. Thursday ignored it, standing. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.” 

_

The doctor said he would be alright with time, and Thursday felt the last of his fear slowly fade. Annie Sanders had kept him tied in the same room for almost three days, not giving him anything to eat and only minimal water. He was exhausted, half-starved, and dehydrated, but he would be alright. 

Thursday sat beside his hospital bed, watching him as he slept. His face was pale, but his breaths were even and steady, and the blood had been washed from his face, replaced by a bandage over his eye. 

As he watched, Morse suddenly shifted, his face crumpling and a small noise escaping. He moved, kicking weakly, crying out suddenly. Thursday leaned forward, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

Morse shot up, eyes wide, pushing himself back. His chest was heaving as he looked around blindly, panic evident in his every movement. 

“Easy, Morse,” Thursday said evenly, pulling his hand back. The anger was still there, smouldering against Annie Sanders, against anyone who would do such a thing. Especially to Morse. 

Morse’s rapid breathing was beginning to slow as he took in the room, pressed against the wall. He blinked, lifting his hands, then looking up at Thursday. 

“Sir?” he asked softly, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. 

“You’re alright,” Thursday said. Morse nodded as though he couldn’t quite believe it, his hands shaking slightly as he held them in front of his face.

“I - I thought…” he trailed off, taking a shaky breath and closing his eyes. 

Once again, Thursday was struck with how young he looked, how scared. He leaned forward, gently taking Morse’s hands in his. “Morse. You’re alright,” he assured the boy. “She’s not going to hurt you anymore.” 

Before he could fully take in what was happening, Morse suddenly flung himself into Thursday’s chest, clinging to him. For a moment, Thursday was taken aback, unsure of how to react to the embrace. The part of him that still saw Morse as just his bagman told him he should get up and leave, Morse would recover fine on his own. 

But he couldn’t. Morse needed affection as much as he needed rest and recovery - and he was a boy who had seen precious little in his life. So, after only a moments hesitation, Thursday returned the embrace, giving Morse the comfort he so desperately needed.

**Author's Note:**

> if we dont' get a hug in canon i'm literally gonna sue.


End file.
